Of Vows and Hallows
by Ell Roche
Summary: Now that the war is finished, Harry Potter doesn't know how or where to start over. Then he finds a note from Viktoria Krum.


Title: Of Vows and Hallows

Pairings: Harry potter/Girl!Viktor Krum, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, and Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger

Warnings: Post-DH, EWE, genderswap, mentioned violence, mentioned character deaths, and drama.

Note: This is sort of a repost. Details are in my profile.

* * *

Harry's hand shook, and the ring clasped between his fingers—platinum with diamonds—fell from his hand and clattered on the glass counter. The sound echoed through the room, holding more power than it should have.

"Mr. Potter?"

The light from the dangling globes overhead bounced off the diamonds, sending a series of rainbows refracting off the gems and onto the walls. They were beautiful, there was no doubt about that, and they drew him in.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Potter?"

The saleslady's voice was an irritating buzz in the background, and he pushed it to the recesses of his mind as he contemplated the ring. It made no sense, none at all, but the ring seemed to weigh a ton or more; he had been unable to keep it in his hand. And while this was the wizarding world, no jeweler would weight an engagement ring . . . unless it carried anti-theft charms, which this piece didn't. No one would dare insult him by leaving such things on.

Then why . . . ?

"Did you want to look at another ring, Mr. Potter? I'm sure I can find something suitable for Miss Weasley."

His eyes shifted away from the ring and locked on her fingers, which twisted and tangled together behind the counter. She likely thought he couldn't see them, but the counter was made of glass, and his eyesight was as sharp as an eagle's thanks to the Hallows. They had healed every imperfection, even smoothing his famous lightning bolt scar down to a smooth, silver line.

"That won't be necessary." Harry didn't even realize he had planned on speaking until the words spilled from his lips.

She heaved a sigh of relief, fingers stilling, and smiled widely at him. "This is the ring you want?"

Harry shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, missing the feel of his holly wand. He had been able to fix it, but he couldn't use it. The Deathstick refused to share its master with anyone else and had, in fact, bonded directly to his core. Hermione figured it was a result of a Peverell owning all three Hallows at once, something that had never happened before. She was right, but he had already known before she told him. He knew a lot of stuff these days.

What was he doing here? Really?

Harry sighed and rocked back on his heels, dismissing the saleslady from his thoughts once again. Well, stupid question, stupid answer, and all that rot. He knew he was here to purchase an engagement ring for Ginny Weasley, but he hadn't wondered why until just now. How horrible of a person did that make him?

Did he really love her? And why was he only wondering this now?

The last one he could answer. Following Voldemort's death, life had been insane. He had been ushered to ceremonies, dinners, galas, etc. Hosting the Chosen One was more popular than chocolate frogs. He had gone along with it, too relieved that the war was over, that he now had choices to contemplate his future.

It had seemed simple: Ginny was there, he loved the Weasleys, so he should marry her.

But that wasn't fair to either of them. He would be the first to admit that he liked Ginny; she had spark, passion, and she didn't let anyone walk all over her. He needed someone like that in his life, and she had slipped into the slot without a question. But, horrifically, Harry had just realized all the places she didn't fill when he had lifted the ring from the velvet box.

Yes, Harry did love Ginny, but he wasn't _in_ love with her. That simple distinction had enormous ramifications, so many that his mind felt like it was going to explode—not that the Hallows would allow it.

So, again, what was he doing here? How had he lost touch with everything that he was? Well, that answer was fairly simple as well. War changed people, and he had let this one alter his very being, but had never bothered to decide if he liked those changes or wanted to reverse them. Had he really become someone who would marry a woman he wasn't in love with? For what? Access to her family? The Weasleys loved him and always would! A chance at a family? He was only eighteen, freshly graduated from Hogwarts, and had plenty of time to find someone suitable to love!

What was the rush?

Various bits and pieces of conversations resounded in his head: friends, strangers, Ministry officials. Comments comparing him and Ginny to his parents. How 'right' they looked together. The thought flared before his inner eye like the brightest _Lumos_ ever cast. He had intended to commit himself in marriage, to a dear friend (whom he didn't love), because he felt it was expected of him.

Sirius would have been ashamed of him.

Harry's hands clenched into fists in his pockets, pulling against the fabric. He didn't even have an adjective profound enough to describe how disappointed his father would be. His father had pursued his mother for years because he loved her, defying his pureblood heritage. He had died for her, for them.

Harry's eyes squeezed shut, and he inhaled deeply. Marrying Ginny wouldn't do either of them any favors. Her love would turn to bitterness, and he would long for someone he could love in his bed. It would destroy them, and his presence had already ruined enough lives in eighteen years.

"Mr. Potter?" The saleslady picked up the ring and offered it to him. "This is the one you want?"

Gulping, Harry stared at the symbol of commitment. It was radiant—rainbows still bouncing along the walls and counters. Thirty minutes ago, it had represented a happy future, family, children. Now he could see that the rainbows were shades of black, foretelling unhappiness and suffering. The diamonds were black holes, each trying to swallow more than any Dementor could hold.

"No." It came out soft, but sharp.

She blinked and pulled her hand back. "Oh! Shall I bring out something else? I'm sure we have what you're—"

He pictured himself sliding the Dementor-stone ring onto Ginny's hand, and saw the vivacious life bleed from her eyes. "No."

Without an explanation, he spun on his heel and stalked out of Ifrit's Treasures. He had gotten all twisted up inside, and he needed to sort out the knots before he hung himself with his own ignorance.

* * *

Wrapping his arms around his legs, Harry pulled his knees to his chest and stared at the sunrise. He had been sitting out on the balcony of his flat for hours now, and he had come to some uncomfortable conclusions.

It was, with much disgust, that he chose 'dunderhead' to describe his activities as of late. "Even Snape would be disappointed in me," he mumbled. That wasn't something he had ever thought would pain him, but it did. Snape had suffered for him more times than he would ever know. Severus Snape was, without a doubt, the bravest man Harry had ever known.

He wouldn't have been able to live Snape's life, that was for sure.

Sighing, Harry glanced down at the swinging couch. He had Transfigured it out of Sirius's old bed and it was one of four things he had kept when he sold Grimmauld Place. Sirius had hated Grimmauld, and Harry couldn't bring himself to live there; it held too many painful memories. He stroked the blue velvet and then returned his eyes to the heavens.

He reached for the brightest star, but it evaded his grasp, unlike the Snitch. "Sirius," he breathed.

Harry had pictures of his godfather, of course he did. But for some unexplainable reason, he felt closest to Sirius when he was gazing at the star he had been named after and lying on the velvet-clad couch.

"What should I do?"

The question was rhetorical, but that didn't really matter, because no one was there to answer it anyway. All the adults he trusted to advise him were gone, lost to the war. The few that remained were biased on the topic, and he didn't want to start a fight.

Obviously, he needed to break things off with Ginny. That went without being said. She deserved to know that his heart didn't lie with her and never would. He was exceedingly grateful they had never progressed beyond snogging. Taking her virginity and then dumping her sounded like something Malfoy would do. He shuddered at the thought.

Additionally, he had to tell her in person. Though he wasn't in love with her, she still mattered. He would respect her feelings for him by explaining, not sending her a short note by owl. How cruel would that be?

Those were topics that he had sorted out hours ago. Others left him in a quandary.

What did he want to do with his life? Despite requests immediately following the war, Harry hadn't joined the Aurors; he had wanted to return to Hogwarts for his final year. So he had. Now, regardless of any qualifications, he knew that anyone in the wizarding world would hire him. In fact, he had already received various offers, few of which interested him.

Harry picked up the parchment lying beside him and read its contents again. A few years ago, being an Auror was his dream. He hadn't pictured himself as doing anything other than fighting crime. But that was before he spent almost a year on the run, before countless battles and deaths, before he had _died_.

Now, Harry could admit without shame that he was tired of fighting.

Decision finally made, Harry Conjured a quill and wrote _I respectfully decline_ on the parchment. After signing his name, it rolled up and vanished. He heaved a deep sigh, feeling as if Dudley had been sitting on his chest and had only just tired of causing him pain—that, more than anything, let him know he had made the correct decision.

He knew there would be a row over this. Ron fully expected them to train as Aurors together, but his friend would eventually get over it. Ron always acted first and thought later; theirs was a friendship full of apologies on Ron's side and forgiveness on Harry's.

Hermione would lecture him and demand to know what he intended to do now that he had turned down the offer, and he couldn't deal with that at the moment. He had acceded to interrogations too often in the past. It was time for Hermione to learn that he had grown up and could make decisions for himself.

And Ginny . . . Harry knew that she would understand. She had always been understanding. That's why breaking her heart would hurt so much.

Groaning, Harry roughly scrubbed his hands down his face. Life-altering decisions were never easy to make, they weren't meant to be, and he had just made several of them.

"Don't be a coward," he whispered. "Just get it over with." He winced at the wording, but couldn't disagree with the sentiment. This was either going to be horribly polite or especially nasty; he wasn't sure which would hurt worse.

Levering himself off the couch and onto his feet, Harry stared at the sky one last time, even though the sun had long since hidden the stars. "Wish me luck." He Disapparated.

Moving through wards had felt like moving through molasses before he had owned the Hallows. Now he barely felt them. He knew they were present, but they didn't impede his progress. He landed on the doorstep of the Burrow with a smile. Some of his fondest memories included this home, easily overpowering the bad ones. The Weasleys had been desperate to move back in following the war, needing the comfort of home, and he had done his best to make sure that happened for them. Some of the convicted Death Eaters' funds went to furnishing new wards for the property.

He knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately.

"Harry!" Molly pulled him into a tight hug. She had lost weight since Fred's death, and he hoped his news wouldn't worsen her health. "How many times have I told you to just Apparate straight in whenever you want?"

Blushing, he scratched the back of his neck. Letting himself in didn't feel right when he had come to break Ginny's heart. He sighed heavily. "Sorry, Mrs. Weasley."

"It's fine, dear. Come on in and have breakfast while you explain to me why you're sighing so heavily," she ordered as she ushered him in and closed the door.

"Bacon and eggs?" he asked, hoping to distract her. It worked, thank Merlin.

"Scrambled or fried?" she asked as she bustled about the kitchen.

"Scrambled please." He clutched the back of Fred's old chair and imagined he could hear the unique throaty laughter that always proved he wasn't George.

"Harry!"

Gulping, he turned around. Ginny stood on the bottom stair in a light blue summer dress. Her radiant red hair fell across her shoulders, and her brown eyes shone like chocolate in the morning light. The smile on her face slowly faded as he stared at her silently. She lifted her arms and wrapped them around her chest. "Mum, Harry and I will be back in a minute." Turning, she headed out the back door. Harry could do nothing but follow.

He walked up behind her and enfolded her in his arms, hating himself for every tremble he felt against his chest. "Hey, Gin."

She turned in his arms and tilted her head back, lips rising to meet his. Harry moved his head aside so that her lips brushed his cheek. Her hands fisted in his shirt and she inhaled so quickly that he wouldn't have been surprised if she fainted. "I see."

Feeling like a right prat, he buried his face in her neck and inhaled: roses and Quidditch leather, s scent that had become as familiar as his own. "I'm sorry."

Ginny's whole body shuddered, and she released his shirt to wipe at her eyes, brushing away the tears that had gathered. "Me too." She pulled away and then cupped his cheeks, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Will you be all right?"

The question felt like a Bludger as it slammed into him. He had just broken her heart, destroyed her dreams, and she was asking if _he_ was all right. "You really are too good for me," he whispered, meaning it.

Ginny leaned up and kissed his cheek again, eyes wet. "Be happy, Harry. That's all I want." She stepped away from him and went inside, but he didn't follow her. The slight hunger he had felt was gone; there was no way he could eat those eggs.

His insides were already scrambled enough.

Harry buried his face in his hands and then Disapparated. She deserved the right to grieve for their stillborn marriage in peace.

* * *

Guilt, that was what he felt. But, perhaps worst of all, he felt guilty for feeling relieved—as if he had been some dangerous creature McNair was about to execute before being granted a pardon. He winced at the morbid comparison.

He couldn't continue to do this: lie in bed and ruminate. That would lead to nothing. Actions were just as important as words. He had spent all of yesterday following his return from the Burrow in bed, and it certainly hadn't done him any good.

Harry groaned and rubbed the grit from his eyes. It wouldn't take a mirror for him to know they were bloodshot and red; that was the natural result of a sleepless night. He shoved a hand into his hair and tugged it, but it didn't pull the thoughts out of his head and leave him with peace and quiet. He was almost desperate enough to ask the Elder Wand to _Silencio_ his brain. His magic pooled at the thought, and he shoved it away quickly.

"Fool," he muttered as he untangled himself from the sheets. They were Egyptian cotton with the highest thread-count available; at least that's what Bill had said when Harry had opened his graduation present. He adored them. They were certainly nicer than anything he had ever had at the Dursleys'.

"Get up, boy!"

Jerking up in bed, Harry braced himself against the sheets as his eyes shot around the room. Nothing. He was alone. The red light of the stunning spell melted back into his skin. "Perfect, Potter, you're hearing voices." Just what he needed!

This wasn't going to work, wasn't going to accomplish anything. Sloth had never been his sin, no matter what Aunt Petunia would say. He couldn't tolerate sitting around and doing nothing much longer.

Throwing the bedding to the side, Harry got to his feet and padded into the bathroom. His reflection told him exactly what he had known it would; he looked like crap. If he didn't get some sleep soon, the Hallows would force him to sleep, and he hated that. He wouldn't be able to wake up until they felt he was properly rested. He wouldn't be in danger (the Hallows protected their master), but being trapped in dreams that could quickly evolve into nightmares was never something he enjoyed.

Harry pushed his pajama pants off his hips and stepped into the shower, turning the water on full blast. It cascaded over him, soothing his aching muscles. He scrubbed himself down perfunctorily, thoughts elsewhere.

It was time to get away from it all. He loved the wizarding world, but he couldn't deal with Britain's population at the moment. People catered to his every whim, begged for his autograph, took and sold photographs of him . . . he felt trapped. "I have to get out," he whispered as he shampooed his hair. "Just for a little while."

Harry didn't fool himself into thinking he could stay away. Britain was his home; the people he loved most resided here—he would always return, if only to visit them.

Everyone knew that he was interested in traveling. He had never gone on holiday as a child or teenager. Hermione had gone to France, among other places. And Harry knew Ron had been to both Romania and Egypt. What would it be like to explore the world? Try new foods? What would it be like for people to look right at him and not know his name or what he had done?

He felt like a ghost drifting through life. He fisted his hand and punched the wall, breaking three of the glass tiles. "What was the point of vanquishing Voldemort if I wasn't going to live?" Harry growled at his own stupidity. These were questions that he should have asked himself long ago.

Sighing, Harry mumbled "_Reparo_." The glass fragments reconnected as if they had never been broken. Luckily, he hadn't cut his knuckles on the jagged tiles. The Hallows got annoyed with him when he injured himself—not that he ever did intentional damage to himself. He wasn't a masochist.

Harry twisted the handle, shutting off the water, and swathed a towel around his hips. His eyes still smarted a bit, but he felt much more human than he had fifteen minutes ago. He swiped a hand across the fogged mirror, gaze homing in on the mark burned into his chest, over his heart—a circle encasing a triangle with a line down the middle. The Hallows had literally merged with his body during the final battle.

People assumed he could now perform wandless magic, but that wasn't the case. The Elder Wand resided inside him, and the spells simply flew from his hands—or wherever they needed to exit to protect him. He had heard people regale his advanced healing and amazing Disillusionment Charms, all the while unknowing the Resurrection Stone kept him healthy and the Invisibility Cloak rose out to create another layer of skin.

He had spent the last year alternating between ignoring these changes and abusing them. It was about time to take responsibility for his title: Master of Death. He couldn't run from the ramifications of that fateful battle, and it had been pathetic of him to try. "Idiot," he grumbled as he pulled a brush through his, as always, messy black hair. That was something unchanged, and he took comfort in it.

The knot on the towel loosened, so Harry tightened it after setting the brush down. A quick _Tempus_ showed that it was already midday. If anyone had the right to wallow in pity at the moment, it was Ginny, not him.

"Grow a pair, Potter." He thrust his toothbrush into his mouth and attacked the Nargle that had died in it overnight. It was a battle easily won, unlike the choice he faced. What came next?

Harry stalked into his bedroom and flicked a hand, sending a spell to make the bed and another to toss his dirty clothes in the hamper. "Out of Britain, obviously. But where to?" Hermione had always made the plans, and he missed that, but it was time to prove he was an adult. If he could kill the evilest Dark Lord ever, he could cease with the indecisiveness that was driving him mental.

Yanking on the closest pair of jeans and the first t-shirt he saw, he paused only to grab socks and his new trainers. As he grasped the shoe box on the top shelf (his beloved old trainers had fallen apart a few days ago and he'd had no choice but to purchase new ones), something tumbled off the shelf and onto the floor.

His gaze zeroed in on the small, golden ball. The Snitch that Dumbledore had given him, his very first one, placed lovingly inside a glass case. Hermione had done that for him the day after the final battle. He picked it up with trembling fingers. And, just like that, something clicked inside his memory.

Harry shoved the Snitch back onto the shelf and pulled out his school trunk. He threw back the lid and rifled through the contents, unsure if he still had what suddenly seemed more priceless than any other gift he had been given. It was an excessive comparison, even to him, but it fit the moment.

It took a few minutes to find his old Quidditch gloves, much too long in his opinion. But then, there they were. They were cracked in places and worn thin in others, clear proof that he had used them well, and much too small for his adult-sized hands. He chuckled as memories surfaced of Oliver Wood dragging the team outside before dawn to practice.

He tugged the right-hand glove out of the tangle of Quidditch equipment and shook it until a small, very wrinkled bit of parchment fell out. Carefully, he smoothed the wrinkles and read the sloping cursive.

A smile spread across his face, followed by a rush of relief.

He had somewhere to go—a place to start. That was more than he'd had in eight years.

* * *

Harry placed the black trousers on top of the other items in his new trunk and glanced around the room a final time. "That's everything," he said decisively before closing the lid. It had taken less time and effort than he had expected to set his affairs in order yesterday.

The goblins had hired a witch to keep his flat in pristine condition, and assigned a manager to overlook his stocks and investments while he was out of the country. Honestly, he was surprised they hadn't banned him from the bank after the mess with the dragon. Then again, Dark Lords had to be bad for business, and if the goblins cared about anything, it was profit.

He patted his pocket, double-checking that his new bank card was there. It was. That would save him the hassle of having to exchange money wherever he went.

"Only one thing left to do." And it wasn't something he anticipated by any means. This was going to be hard, but he had to do it. He Shrunk the trunk and shoved it in his pocket. With a sigh, Harry pictured Ron and Hermione's flat and Disapparated. He reappeared outside their front door and knocked once, sharply.

The door opened and Hermione pulled him into a hug. "Harry! It's good to see you! How've you been?" The last words were more formality than anything, and they made him wince. Apparently Ginny hadn't told anyone yet, not that he blamed her. If the situation had been reversed . . .

"Hey, Hermione, is Ron here too?" he asked. He didn't think he could explain this more than once; hopefully it would be like removing a sliver: sharp pain that quickly vanished.

The skin between her eyebrows furrowed. "Yes, he is," she said as she pushed a lock of brown hair behind her ear. "Is something wrong?"

He dragged a hand down his face, fingers trailing across the stubble he hadn't bothered to shave. "Yes. No. I guess it depends on what your definition of 'wrong' is." His hand moved to rub the back of his neck and he shifted his weight from leg to leg. "Can I come in?"

Her eyes widened each time he fidgeted, but she nodded. "Of course you can, Harry. Come on in." She turned and yelled, "Ron, Harry's here!" then pushed the door shut after he had entered.

Harry strode past the leather couch (Ron's idea) and over to the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows. He leaned his forehead against them and stared down at Diagon Alley. It was prime real estate—a gift from some benefactor following the war, who wished to remain anonymous. Ron and Hermione hadn't been able to reject it.

"Hey, mate, how did it go?"

Ron's reflection was visible in the glass. His red hair was brushed smooth, not messy for once, an unlikely circumstance this late in the afternoon. His blue eyes sparkled, resembling Dumbledore's for a second. And his smile was wide and joy-filled. Harry hated that he would be the one to ruin his friend's happiness.

"It didn't," he whispered.

The smile melted off Ron's face. "What did you say?"

Sighing, Harry turned to lean against the glass. He kept his gaze fixed on the hardwood floors like a coward. "It didn't."

Ron took a step closer, his large feet lumbering into view. "She'd never have said no to you, Harry. She loves you."

The words were spoken tonelessly, didn't hold an ounce of accusation, but they hurt like the Cruciatus as they slammed into Harry. It was merely an observation—a completely honest one.

"Ginny?" Hermione asked, instantly catching on, just as Harry had known she would. People didn't call her 'bright' because of her eyes.

"You didn't ask her to marry you," Ron said. Again, there was no accusation in his voice. In fact, he almost sounded relieved, but that didn't make any sense. Why would Ron be—? "Thank Merlin."

Harry's head jerked up so sharply that he felt one of his neck muscles wrench. The pain vanished almost immediately, as he had come to expect. "What?"

Ron flushed a deep red and sat on the back of the couch, much to Hermione's visible displeasure, though she didn't reprimand him. Harry figured she was too curious about what they were discussing, what she didn't know, to remind him of what was and wasn't proper. "I could tell," Ron whispered, "that you weren't in love with her. I mean, I know you love her—you're not a heartless prat—but you weren't _in_ love with her. That's important for people getting married." He glanced away from Harry and then back again. "Especially wizarding marriages; they can't be dissolved like that Muggle deforce thing."

"Divorce," Hermione corrected. She stared at Harry. "You were going to ask Ginny to marry you?"

Unable to acknowledge the question because of Ron's comment, Harry blinked dumbly. "Why didn't you say anything?" He had come here expecting a fight, not this. Perhaps Ron was finally growing up . . . or perhaps Ron had already grown up and Harry had been too busy to notice; the last year had been hectic, and he hadn't spent as much time with his best friends as he had in the past.

"You're family," Ron mumbled. "Both you and Ginny. My brother and sister. I couldn't—" He moved off the couch and started pacing in a small circle. "She genuinely loves you, and you've had too many decisions made for you in your life. I figured, even if I knew it would be a bad choice, I should support you."

Hermione grinned proudly at him for that, but still looked vaguely confused.

"That's—" Harry swallowed roughly and briefly wondered if it was possible to literally choke on air or emotion. If it were, he would never know. "Thanks, mate." He felt tears prick his eyes and spun to face the wall of windows. That Ron would respect his decisions, even the stupid ones, and continue to support him meant the world to him. "I think you know exactly how much that means to me," he whispered.

"Yeah, I do." Ron's reflection grew larger, and then Ron was standing right beside him, shoulders brushing as they stared out the window together. A wizard with a young child ate ice cream cones and laughed loudly on the street below.

"Sorry to interrupt your male bonding moment," Hermione said, and she did sound apologetic, "but I'm a little lost. So, to clarify, Harry was going to ask Ginny to marry him, but he didn't because he isn't in love with her. And Ron, you support his decision not to marry your sister, even though she's very much in love with him." Harry winced, but nodded, as did Ron. "I see. You did tell her, right?"

The scent of roses and Quidditch leather slammed into him. "Yes," he bit out. His forehead banged against the window. "Merlin, Hermione, her eyes . . ." He had never wanted to cause pain to his loved ones, but he seemed particularly adept at it. It wasn't a skill of which he would ever be proud.

"Oh." Harry felt warm arms encircle him from behind and clasped his hands around Hermione's. "You're leaving, aren't you? To make things easier for her."

That was one reason of many, but it was true enough. "Yes."

"Stay with us?"

"Hermione, I really need to—"

"For one day," she clarified. She pressed herself flush against his back and squeezed him tightly. "We haven't been truly separated in years, Harry, and we'll miss you. Give us a day to store up memories before you leave to wherever you're headed."

Harry blinked back tears and Ron pulled both him and Hermione into his arms. Ron propped his chin on Harry's head, overly tall git. He only had one possible answer for their request. "All right."

* * *

"Muggle London?" Harry asked after hastily swallowing his eggs. Hermione had been rather determined that she get a full day with him, forcing him to sleep over the night before. He hadn't minded, though. They had all spent the night reminiscing of happier times, days before their sole purpose seemed to be combating Voldemort.

"Yes," she replied. She tugged the hem of her white blouse down from where it had ridden up as she placed a teacup away.

"W'for," Ron mumbled around his mouthful of kippers.

"Oh, honestly, Ronald, swallow before speaking." Her tone didn't match the fond light in her eyes, but Ron's paling face told Harry his friend hadn't noticed.

Ron swallowed loudly and then gulped his pumpkin juice. "Sorry."

She gave a long-suffering sigh. "Well, Harry's leaving to see the world, right?"

"Yeah, that's what he said last night."

"I think it'd be a good idea for him to see England first. I'm sure the Dursleys never took him anywhere special," she said, lips pulled in a moue. The sight brought a smile to Harry's face. That was his friend Hermione, always looking to right wrongs. He loved her for it.

"Blasted Muggles," Ron grumbled as he stabbed his fried tomatoes viciously. "Not fit to lick the dirt off Harry's boots."

Harry sniggered and grinned over at his friend. "Careful there, mate, you're starting to sound like Malfoy."

Ron's jaw dropped open, and he turned an unflattering shade of red—not that many shades looked good next to his hair, of course. "I am not!" He glared at Harry and shoved a forkful of tomatoes into his mouth, chewing loudly, lips smacking with each bite. Harry was sure Hermione would have reprimanded his manners again if she hadn't been giggling behind her hand. "'Sides, it's the truth!"

Disagreeing wasn't exactly an option. There was certainly no love lost between him and his living relatives. Still, he didn't wish them ill; they had taken him in. Despite Dumbledore's letter to his aunt, they could have _lost_ him, or placed him in an orphanage. He could have had an 'accident'. They hadn't treated him like Dudley, but they hadn't beaten him either. Others had it worse.

"Enough about them," Harry said. He leaned back in the chair, balancing it on two legs. Hermione scowled but didn't berate him; she hadn't managed to break him of the habit in eight years, and she wouldn't want to fight on his last day in England. "Where are we going?" he asked as Hermione swung her bag over her shoulder.

"It's a surprise, so hurry up!" She placed her hands on her hips and tapped her foot against the floor, which made Ron scoop his beans into his mouth so rapidly Harry was impressed he didn't choke. Ron leaped to his feet and walked over to Hermione, so Harry joined them. She clasped their hands and Harry (realizing what she intended to do) ordered the Elder Wand to lend her magic. She Side-Along-Apparated them.

"Where's this?" Ron asked, craning his neck as he looked around.

"As close to Buckingham Palace as I could get us," Hermione replied. "Now come on!" She beckoned them out of the damp alley with a wide grin, childish and carefree; Harry hadn't seen her smile like that since they were fourteen. "Move it."

"Yes ma'am," they replied in unison as they hurried after her.

London was beautiful, not that Harry had expected it to be ugly—people wouldn't holiday here if it were—and he couldn't help but resent his circumstances for never allowing him the time to discover the treasures of his home. Buckingham Palace was followed by Windsor Castle, Big Ben, the Tower of London (which held jewels that rivaled the priciest he had seen in Ifrit's Treasures), London Zoo (where Harry most assuredly did _not_ tell a python to eat one of the handlers who muttered about snakes being hideous). Hermione had come armed with a magical camera and tons of film. She took more pictures than Colin Creevey.

"All right, Harry?" she asked. "We can head back if you're—"

"I'm fine," he insisted. "Just, the camera." He waved his hand at it, and Hermione proved she was a genius once again.

"Right, Colin. I didn't think, Harry. I'm so—"

"No, I think it's great! He would've liked to see them. I want to take pictures, document my life. He would've enjoyed that," Harry said. Outside of Fred's death, Colin's had hit him hardest. Seeing the young and innocent Gryffindor lying dead still burned. He regretted every single time he had brushed off the younger boy. "Where to next?"

"Harry, are you sure?" she asked, hand reaching forward to brush his.

"Yes, Hermione, I am. Where to?" He tried to push every ounce of regret away, and he must have succeeded, because she finally nodded, frown melting away.

"You'll love it," she promised. Harry didn't doubt her for a minute; he followed her into a nearby alley with Ron and joined their hands, pushing more power toward her. "I've saved the best for last."

"The London Eye," Harry breathed minutes later, after they had escaped the network of alleys. He had heard of it, of course, and he had seen it in _The Times_ just last week, accompanying an announcement that it was finally complete and open for business.

"The city has an eye?" Ron asked, mouth open in horror as he backed away from it.

Harry and Hermione burst into laughter. "No! It's a Ferris wheel, the tallest in the world. I've never been on one before." He stared at it covetously, wondering how riding it would compare to flying his Lightningbolt. Why did people keep naming things after him? He sighed, wishing he hadn't lost his Firebolt in the Battle over Little Whinging; it was the only thing Sirius had given him, other than the broken mirror.

"Oh! But the line's so long," Ron grumbled. "It'll take hours."

Smirking, Hermione pulled a hand out of her bag. It held three pieces of paper. "I got tickets in advance. We can skip the line."

Harry stared at them dubiously. "And how much did that cost you?" They certainly couldn't have been cheap.

"Never you mind, Harry. I was saving them for your birthday, but since you won't be here . . ." She turned and hurried past the people waiting, ignoring the muttering and complaints about them skipping in line. "Well, are you coming or not?" she called over her shoulder.

Grinning, Harry and Ron hurried after her. She handed the tickets to the attendant and they entered a compartment all their own; it brought back memories of riding the Hogwarts Express. Harry stared out the window from his seat, glancing over occasionally to see Ron exclaiming over something excitedly while holding Hermione's hand. They really were perfect for each other. Hopefully, he would find that someday.

_You will_, Hermione mouthed at him.

Harry blushed, hating the feeling of being transparent—even to her. If others could read him as easily, they would attack like vultures, hoping to secure a piece of the Chosen One. He turned away, vowing to let them have as much privacy as he could in the limited space.

The Thames stared up at him, moving, flowing, unstoppable and ever-changing. In many ways, he was like the Thames. People looked at it and saw a river; but he could see the damage, the waste, the imperfections. It was powerful, but not pure.

A large, callused, freckled hand covered his. "But it's always there," Ron said, causing Harry to realize he had spoken those thoughts aloud. "You can be your Thames, and we'll be your banks, all right?"

"One on either side, always ready to support and guide you," Hermione added with tear-filled eyes as both she and Ron settled next to him on the bench.

Harry dropped his head on Hermione's shoulder and squeezed Ron's hand fiercely. Staying the extra day had been worth it. It had been a while since the three of them had been this close, and he hadn't realized how much he had missed them until just now. "This is the best birthday present ever."

He wasn't talking about the ride in the Ferris wheel. The tight hugs let Harry know they understood.

* * *

Intercontinental Apparition was supposedly impossible, but he was Harry Potter. Still, that didn't make it entirely effortless, even with the assistance of the Hallows. And honestly, after having been up until almost midnight with Ron and Hermione again, he was tuckered out.

Inhaling deeply, Harry stared at the door of the house. It was the only visible structure for miles, standing within a circle of trees not too far from the nearest mountain range. It was only one story, but it sprawled, with stone walls, a wraparound porch, and massive windows. Plants he couldn't name (though Neville surely could) grew up the sides of the house and covered the roof. Blossoms of various colors, some glowing in the dark, shone beneath the waxing moon.

Harry scrubbed a hand down his face, which was starting to itch since he hadn't shaved in almost three days now. They hadn't seen each other in over a year, and she had made the offer ages ago. But she had promised it would always be open.

"Right, you can do this." Unsure why his heart was racing in his chest—he was acting like a teenage girl with a crush—he walked up the four steps onto the porch. Harry shook the thought away and then knocked.

The sound of something breaking echoed through the house, and Harry winced. What was he doing here at this time, anyway? He should've waited until it was light out. His mum would be ashamed of him. Didn't he have any manners?

Harry had just decided he should turn around and leave, come back at a more reasonable hour, when the door opened. He gulped as his heart raced. It had happened to him before, but he had ignored it—idiot. He should've accepted years ago that his body reacted more to this witch than anyone else.

"Harry?"

Viktoria Krum's hair was mussed, appearing almost as wild as Harry's did every single day. Her eyes were narrow with sleep, and she leaned against the door frame in nothing but a large pajama shirt. She looked ravishing.

"What?" Harry was only thankful his voice didn't break as it had done when he was thirteen. That would've been humiliating. He was sure his face had already given away enough.

"Vhy are you here so late? Is something wrong?" Viktoria asked, brow furrowing.

Harry forcibly tore his eyes away and stared over at the trees instead. "Um, er, fine . . . everything's fine. Just, you said I could visit. But, um, I obviously should've owled first and—"

A sleep-roughened chuckle escaped Viktoria's lips, and Harry's head jerked back around. A shiver raced down his spine.

"I said you are alvays velcome, and I meant it."

"Oh, um, that's good." So his surprise arrival wasn't bad, and it hadn't annoyed Viktoria enough to send him away. That was good.

Viktoria smirked and reached out, grabbing Harry's hand and pulling him inside before closing the door. "Still, it is time to be sleeping."

"Yes, right, it is," Harry agreed, berating himself for sounding like a complete idiot. He could hear Snape making the comparison to Neville as a first-year all too easily. He winced. Harry hated making a fool of himself.

"I am only haffing one bed," Viktoria said as she tugged Harry into her bedroom. "The other rooms haff less furniture. I vill get bed for you tomorrow." Viktoria glanced back at Harry over her shoulder, dark eyes shining with emotions that couldn't possibly be what Harry thought they were. "Unless that is problem?"

Harry shook his head frantically and barely bit back the urge to tell Viktoria she didn't need to buy another bed, because Harry didn't mind sharing with her _at all_. For this reason, he also kept the knowledge that either of them could simply Transfigure Harry his own bed to himself.

"It's fine," he whispered, positive that his eyes were wide and his cheeks were red. After Viktoria dropped his hand, Harry stripped down to his pants and then crawled on top of the blankets. Viktoria, who was blatantly feigning sleep already, wrapped an arm around him and pulled Harry close.

Grinning, Harry hooked his arm over Viktoria's waist. This, whatever it might become, had clearly been the right place to start. _And maybe, just maybe_, he thought as he inhaled the scent of lilacs and Quidditch leather—so similar to Ginny's, but definitely unique and different—_it would become the right place to stay as well_.


End file.
